


Quit

by TheVeryLastValkyrie



Series: Kinkmas MMXV [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: (It Should Ever Be), Could It Ever Be?, F/F, F/M, Is It a Threesome?, Wistfully Treacherous Lady Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 18:49:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5676748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVeryLastValkyrie/pseuds/TheVeryLastValkyrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmas III. There's a nightmare in her bed, but she thought it was a dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bibliolatress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliolatress/gifts).



She isn’t a morning person. It’s actually one of the first things she told me about herself the day we met – now I think it about it, it may have been a come-on – ‘I’m not a morning person’. She’s rushing around, halfway into her smart casual blazer, but she stops and bends over to bite the toast right out of my hand. I stop her to brush low fat margarine off the corner of her mouth; I waste a little time on her cheek, on playing with a strand of her hair, and her green eyes glow out at me from beneath three coats of mascara and a sixties flick.

“You don’t eat carbs,” she points out.

“You eat them for me,” I reply.

“Witch.” And she swallows.

Sophie’s at her best at the weekend. She’s like a snug little animal that hibernates, except she’s long and pale and I like turning back the duvet section by section to look at her. I see thigh and arse and breast and stomach. I see dark curly hair and darker curlier hair as she wriggles further down, away from the draught. She isn’t at all ladylike. She rocks her hips against me because she likes the sheets sticky. If I slid into bed beside her, there’d be a coaxing thumb and two curling fingers coming for me, me coming for her before I’d even switched off the light. I didn’t know before. I didn’t know if I’d like it.

I do like it.

I like _her_ , but she’s hard to pin down.

We’re not serious, I tell myself. It’s why I ask the annoyingly handsome man who came in with the police but didn’t say he was a policeman on a date. He was wearing black, but his eyes are grey. I’ve kissed him. Sophie knows, of course. She sits me on the edge of the bath and puts on my lipstick for me, and then she kisses me very softly, and it passes from me to her, smudging over the edges of her mouth because mine is fuller and I smile more. It gives me a funny feeling, being kissed like that, and I hang onto her arm, onto her gauzy red sleeve.

“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to ruin you.”

“You didn’t.”

“Kiss him again,” she orders. “Forget the Fleur thing.”

“Do you want me to bring him back?”

“If you like.” She’s looking in the mirror again, but at her reflection, not at mine. “I thought I’d go out. Give the two of you some privacy.”

We’re having dinner, French food, but I wanted to bring him here and I wanted to see if he’d fuck us. I don’t want to be without her. I don’t know why she said sorry for kissing me. I want him to kiss her, for her to bite him like she does me. I want her to lie between us and for us to go down and into her together – but Sophie wants to give us privacy.

Because of her, I don’t fuck the man who didn’t say he was a policeman. We come back to the flat to find it empty: of Sophie and, I soon discover, of the Fleur files. Sophie de la Chapelle was a dream. I loved a dream. I let a dream with clever fingers into my home, and it turned out to be an anatomist, and it’s cut out my heart. I didn’t ask why she thought she’d go out, but I see the grey-eyed man go white, and I know why she didn’t want him inside her on a Friday night. She was avoiding him. I was her cake. She was eating me up. He’s special branch. She’s his opposite number. She was tasked with Fleur too. Her surname may be right, but her first name isn’t.

My hands are numb as I move the objects on my desk into one of two cardboard boxes provided for the purpose. My face feels numb. I’m looking out from behind a sheet of glass at the world which used to be mine, the job and the money and the life with the girlfriend who ate toast which used to be mine. She used to slap me pink and happy. I used to like it.

She bites her tongue when she comes to see me off, and my knees still knock.

“Why?” I ask.

She still would.

“Love,” she answers, quite smug about it too.

So would I.


End file.
